


Funeral for a city

by gemlad



Category: Odyssey (PD LRP)
Genre: Damascus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 01:36:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2090934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemlad/pseuds/gemlad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damascus has been wiped from the world. Zuleyka comes to terms with it in her own way. Diary format.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Funeral for a city

It has been one month. One month since I heard about Damascus. The few refugees have been housed in Palmyra. The first week was spent in shock, the second in tears, the third spent writing the names of everyone we could remember, as they slipped our memories and tried to escape. This last week, the refugees have been finding homes and work, but me? I have the luxury and curse of free time and coin. I find I cannot move on until I have done all I can to put Damascus to rest, and for that I must travel. The caravans would take a week to travel between the cities, and without the Gates it will take me the same. I think healing will not be required on this journey and I feel moved to learn the manipulation of earth and fire. I will perform the rites in the morning.

I am travelling alone, apart from a pack-camel. I grew up among these dunes and I know that any bandits will let me pass given my sad tale. As I walk, I allow the memories to flow.  
The first time I saw Damascus was as a child. My mother needed to negotiate with a new herb supplier and we spent the evening sipping tea in the gardens on the slopes. The scent of jasmine was heady, and the moon shone on the canals.  
The next memory I have is after the Bastard had passed through. We had evaded the army in the desert, but we needed supplies and the blasphemers were between us and Palmyra. The temples were still burning and the stench of death was on the air. The people however were resilient and were already recovering and repairing.  
Bahadur on the throne and I move to Damascus, being close to my brethren exiled to Egypt but still on Persian soil. Egyptian temples were still to be found, but it was mainly the Marduk magi touting for coin. The smiths were no longer producing swords by the hundreds in this time of the arena; instead, they turned their hands to masterwork commissions and filigree steel as fine as silver.  
I remember leaving my home to go to the Arrow of Fire. Giving final instructions to my assistant Nahib to look after my apothecary shop. Praying at the shrine to Ninhursag to aid my healing at the annual. Stepping through the Gate without a backward glance.

And now I sit at the foot of the mountain. There is no road. There is no city. I close my eyes and pretend I can hear the bustle of trade and a caravan behind me. I imagine I can smell the flowers of the oasis. But I can't. I open my eyes and they are dry. There is nothing here to grieve. I was expecting carnage, but this is worse. This is a nothingness that cuts straight to my heart. The light is fading and there will be no moon tonight. I shall make camp here, where the oasis used to be.

Last night I dreamt. Horrible, twisting nightmares of Damascus' last hour. Blood rained from the sky but then the sky shifted and up was sideways and sideways spun around. The stars wheeled in the void that was all around. The walls cracked and a great fissure opened in the earth. I could smell the burning of wood and flesh but I could see no fire. I heard a scream but I knew it was not human; it was the very earth crying out. I woke suddenly and I knew what must be done.  
I will raise a new Damascus: an effigy in the sand, and I will burn it.

I do not know for how long I have toiled. The moon is in its first quarter, but whether it has been one week or five, or longer, I know not. Using mastery of earth I have created an image of Damascus. I remember trying to recall the layout of the temple district when a guiding force overtook me. I do not know if I have slept but I feel no fatigue.  
The city of sand is before me. I will pray to Nergal and Ereshkigal, and even the Dagger in the Dark, to seek out the souls of Damascus. Any death is better than the void, but my hope is slim.

I performed the funeral for a city. I called up fire and burnt the model, turning it to blinding glass. I called down rain and the effigy of Damascus shattered into a hundred million pieces across the desert. Perhaps it served as a beacon to any of the lost dead who could still find it. Perhaps Nergal will find them. I can do no more. It is time to move on.


End file.
